ARE YOU SUSAN(?) by Robin
Roberts

I HATE ORANGE JUICE! I always have, I think I always will. But six cans
of frozen orange juice are in the freezer six pack just in case a lovely lady
by the name of Sue knocks on my door and asks for a glass of vodka and orange
juice. I think I will keep six fresh, unopened cans of orange juice in my
freezer until the day I die. In my will there will be a clause that states that
there will be a refrigerator installed right next to my grave.

I have been involved in the scene for many years. I have placed ads in
all type of places, even the corner laundromat. Today has been the payment for
all of those hours of hard (and hard-luck) work. For years I have run an
advertisement that reads:

"I am a Master with female chattel. I understand that it is a fine
golden thread that connects pleasure to pain. I know how to stretch that thread
tight enough to play music with breaking it. (###) ###-####."

About two o'clock this afternoon, Sue called in answer to that ad. She
had a day off from work and was calling from home, about forty miles from my
place of residence. We talked on the phone for about thirty minutes. (People
who know me know that a five minute call is endlessly long.) She asked me what
I did for and to my slave, and what she did for and to me. Sue said she had
never answered an ad before; that she was very nervous and that she did not
know what to expect. She was terrified because she might be forced in to
something she did not want to do.

I tried to reassure her by telling her that for our first meeting, we
would meet at a very nice, quiet restaurant/cocktail lounge. We agreed on a
place to meet at about seven this evening. We would have a cup of coffee, or
maybe have a drink, and do nothing more than talk. I said I would buy her
dinner, if she was hungry and so desired. If I was not what she was looking
for, she could leave and she would not have to divulge her identity.

I have to admit, that in the back of my head, I was thinking that if
she were not up to my standards, I could tell I needed to use the rest room and
then duck out the back door. I shall also admit that I screen people that I
talk to on the phone and I have never had to duck out of an arranged
meeting.

About three o'clock she called again. "Would I tell her more?" etc.,
etc. I was beginning to think that I had another person who just wanted to talk
on the phone. You know, all show, no go. I again explain what my advertisement
meant and what I was interested in and, again. I told her that she would not be
killed; she would not be kidnapped and held for ransom; I would respect her
limits; etc., etc. She said she would meet me at the lounge. I asked what she
was wearing. "A pink floral blouse, a plain pink miniskirt, panty hose and
pumps." I was thinking to myself: either she overlooked a few items of clothing
or ...

At four-fifteen, Sue called again. This time she said she didn't want
to meet at the lounge. Would it be all right if she came directly to my home at
about five-thirty and had a drink there. I answered in the affirmative. "What
would you like drink?" "I really like vodka and orange juice." Well, I had
vodka and ... well ... no orange juice. I told her: "Sure, come on over, I have
vodka and orange juice". It wasn't a total lie: I live two doors from a 7-11
and they have OJ.

At four-thirty, she called again. I am beginning to think that Sue does
not really exist. She is really someone working for one of my competitors and
is just trying to keep my phone line tied up. In that way, my customers will
call me, get a busy signal and, in desperation, call my competition. "Is it all
right if I came by about five-thirty instead?". Again an affirmative answer.
Upon hanging up, I take the phone off the hook (making it busy to anyone else
who calls) and run a quick round trip foot race to the 7-11.

Five-thirty comes and goes. Five-forty and five-fifty come and go; as
does six o'clock. I knew it. I just $%#@ knew it!! Another @#%*@# phone freak
jamming up my line. Why do I do this to myself. I enter my kitchen to get a cup
of tea and ... as I look out the kitchen window ... there is someone standing
just outside my front door. A tall, good looking lady dressed in pink. She
starts to knock, then stops: obvious indecision on her part. She looks in the
window, and when she sees me, she faces the door and knocks twice. Ah ... a
good sign.

I answer the door, and guide her into my living room. As a person who
has made his living running a few modeling agencies, I speak with authority
when I say she is quite attractive. She is very, very nervous. "Would you like
something to drink?" "Do you have any Vodka and orange juice" "How fortunate, I
just happen to have some of each." Oh, what tangled webs we weave! I suddenly
remember a television commercial where a young man climbs down a fire escape in
the rain to purchase a soft drink for a neighbor (a beautiful lady, of course)
who has just rung his door bell requesting, perchance, some liquid
refreshment.

She says she has never answered an ad in her life and she is afraid. I
try to explain about safe words, safe sex, safe... She has been married and
divorced. Both her ex-husband and current boyfriend are, in her words, "very,
very boring". Totally Vanilla, with a capital "V". Slam-bam, thank you, mam.
Not even oral sex, except her on them. She says that she does not want to be
romanced; she wants to be forced to perform sexual acts: compelled to enjoy
herself. She says she will try anything as long as she is not hurt, but
definitely no gags. She may need to for something, like maybe help, right?

She says that she had often fantasized about being involved with a
couple where the other girl "is told to do nasty things to me and I am forced
to allow her to do it. At other times I dream that I am the slave, and I am
taken to this place I don't recognize and I am forced to have sex with all of
these people, both men and women." I am thinking to myself: "My girl friend
won't be here for another three hours. Can I keep her occupied until then? If I
get on the phone, who do I know that would be available on such short notice?
Who do I ... ?? How do I ... ??"

I ask her if she would like to, maybe, dress up. After all, slaves
should wear clothes that make them look like slaves. "Oh dear, whatever would I
be forced to wear?" " Well, a see-through blouse, stockings, garter-belts and,
of course, a collar." I can tell she is really nervous. "Perhaps a second
drink?" "Oh, yes, please ...If it won't be to much trouble" (Oh, thank heaven
for 7-11.) I lead her to the bedroom, where I have laid out the appropriate
attire for the evening. After instructing her to what to wear, and how to wear
it, I return to the living room. As I leave the bedroom and close the door
behind me, I make a mental note to install a two way mirror in my the bedroom
wall of my next home.

I am standing in the living room, trying to decide what to do with
myself. Should I be standing, seated, or looking busy? A devilish thought: what
would Ann Landers say is the proper protocol? What is taking Sue so long. Has
she changed her mind, again? I know, I will be sitting here on the sofa,
looking cool and natural. You know. Cool. I mean, after all. I deserve the
best. A beautiful young lady knocks on my door and asks to be my love slave
five or six times a week, right? RIGHT?!?

I tell her that we are going to begin by playing a fantasy game. I try
to develop a mental picture that I think she may enjoy. She is a princess, the
daughter of a royalty. (This is not difficult to develop the picture with
standing in front of me.) Her country has been overrun by my army and navy; her
family has been taken captive; their fate is in her hands. She need only to
accede to five years of as my queen-slave to save their lives. (Again,easy for
me. I mean after all, you need to start from some kind of story line, right?) I
have her kneel at my feet, a slaves rightful place.Oh, be still my beating
heart! Have I sent in the premium on my cardiac health insurance?

She is beginning to submerse herself in my fantasy. I mean, really
starting to play her part. I find that I must tell her for a third time: "Don't
you understand: it is Yes, Master or No, Master. Grunts and moans are not
answers'". She looks at me with those beautiful brown eyes and says: "Master, I
have been a bad slave and I should be severely punished". To help establish the
"Me Master, you slave" role, I take her right nipple between thumb and
forefinger and squeeze, ever so gently. (Would you disfigure fine alabaster
marble?) She moans delightfully and moves slowly away from me. I squeeze just a
little bit harder. She positions her left breast into my other hand. (How can a
fellow turn down such a wonderful invitation?) She begins to move her body in a
series of vertical ellipses so that her breasts are first pulled right, down,
left and then up. Ah, I think with exhilaration. The Master was right again!
Right there! I heard it! Now that was a definitely a moan of pleasure! It is so
nice to have a little positive feedback once in a while. It is even more
pleasurable to have a lot of positive feedback.

I then show her a small paddle. For the first time she is quite vocal
about her desires: she does not want to play any "whip me, beat me" game.
"Please Master, spank me with your hand. Please Master, not the paddle." I tell
her to hold the paddle in her hands. "Please, Master, no paddles." I tell her
that if she is holding it in her hands, she will know where it is and where it
is not. Again those eyes turn my insides to jelly. No, not jelly: an
exquisitely gift-wrapped, little jar made of high quality, cut crystal
containing Smuckers Orange Marmalade!

What could I do? Oh, what ever should I do? A difficult decision for
any Master. Whether to fall prey those eyes or deprive myself of their beauty,
oh, what a quandary? Of Course! When you have jelly, you open a jar of peanut
butter.

I quietly and gently caress her. I reassure her as I blindfold her. I
gently lower her to the floor, moving her hands chained behind her head. I
instruct her to kiss her Masters' hand. "No kissing! It's to romantic! Force
me!" I stroke and massage her. I produce another handkerchief. (I visualize old
movies in which the cowboys always had a handkerchief.) I roll it into a gag.
(Did the Lone Ranger ... ??)I instruct her take an end in each of her hands and
hold it across her mouth. (What about Dale Evans??) And then, well, she
deserved a reward for, well, you know, being such an excellent slave.

Then it happened. Right after she orgasmed, she stated quite clearly
that she had to get dressed. Now. She wished to be relieved of her chains. Now!
She said she had to leave. NOW!! I tried to talk to her and find out if she was
all right. She said that she was ok, but really wanted to leave. She stood at
my front door and told me that she really enjoyed herself, and that fact really
frightened her. She wanted to go home, think about what had transpired, and
that she would probably call me again in a few days.

Like I said. I plan to maintain a supply orange juice in my freezer.
Oh, and Sue, if by some chance you should happen to read this story and decide
to return to my home; I promise I will learn to like orange juice, even the
fresh squeezed kind with the funny little white seeds and pulp and ...

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I can be reached by sending email to: Robin@BackDrop.net (I'm not greedy, I
just want to know by whom they have been adopted.)